


in the woods somewhere

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: "Geralt?" he calls, nervousness in his tone. He stands up hesitantly, unsure if he should truly be worried yet.Nothing will get you. Geralt will stop it before it gets to you.Geralt's voice reaches him, low and rough and just a little bit dangerous. It sends a familiar shiver down his spine. "I'm giving you a two minute head start, little fox. Better start running."Oh.With no further question or protest, Jaskier turns on his foot and takes off.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 773





	in the woods somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to do a "geralt burning thru the effects of his witcher potions by hunting jaskier like the feral beast he is" fic of my own and so this was born 
> 
> aka The Feral Chase Fic

Night has fallen gentle and sweet in the woods when Jaskier banks the fire Geralt had lit for their dinner and lays out his bedroll. Roach is a few meters away, grazing lazily on grass. Jaskier had brushed her down earlier and fed her a treat while Geralt couldn't see to reprimand him for spoiling her. He smiles to himself, thinking of the way Geralt would pretend to huff about it before giving her pats and an apple himself. 

Geralt had said he'd be a few hours when he left Jaskier at camp. Back before dawn at the latest. Jaskier figures he can get out of his own armor and crawls to his bedroll, ready to bed down. Something feels—off, though. 

It's quiet. Maybe a bit  _ too  _ quiet. But Roach is calm, and if there were something wrong, she'd let him know. 

A twig snaps just outside the visible reaches of their campsite, and Jaskier looks over, straining to see through the shadows, heart racing. He sees Roach's ear flick toward the sound, watches her look up and shuffle a few steps, then return to the grass. 

Not a threat, then. But still— 

"Geralt?" he calls, nervousness in his tone. He stands up hesitantly, unsure if he should truly be worried yet.  _ Nothing will get you. Geralt will stop it before it gets to you.  _

Geralt's voice reaches him, low and rough and just a little bit dangerous. It sends a familiar shiver down his spine. "I'm giving you a two minute head start, little fox. Better start running." 

_ Oh.  _ With no further question or protest, Jaskier turns on his foot and takes off. 

The woods they're in aren't dense, but they're not exactly sparse, either. Jaskier nimbly jumps over tree roots and avoids getting himself tangled in various flora as he darts his way through. Soft beams of moonlight mark his path, and Jaskier uses it as a guide as he heads deeper in. 

Must not have been an ancient leshen, then, like Geralt first thought—just a young one. He usually manages to burn through the potions he takes when facing a stronger one, and if he needs this to help them run their course instead— 

Jaskier ducks behind a large tree to catch his breath for a moment, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. His heart beats rapidly in his chest; he can feel it against his ribs and he knows it's audible to any beast with an enhanced sense of hearing who might be on the hunt tonight. 

And certainly if that hunter is a witcher. 

It's really not often that Geralt comes back still high on his potions, their toxicity burning in his blood and sharpening his senses until the stimulus becomes painful without a proper physical outlet. In the decade and a half Jaskier has been with him, it's happened maybe a dozen times in total. 

In the early days, Jaskier wasn't nearly so adept at navigating woods. Geralt would give him a full ten minutes' head start, and he'd be caught in eleven. 

Jaskier pushes off the tree and starts off again. His heartbeat is still rapid, but it's as much anticipation as it is adrenaline. He comes to the creek that splits this particular woods and follows it for a bit, the water calm and reflecting the moonlight like glass. It had been pleasantly warm earlier in the evening when he'd bathed in it, and he imagines it would be so again in the warm summer night. 

Something startles in the underbrush as Jaskier turns back into the thick of the trees, leaving the edge of the river. It gives away his location, he knows, but he's not truly trying to hide it, anyway. Nimble as he is now, he still stomps through with heavy feet, and Geralt's hearing is beyond excellent. 

There's also his scent, too, but there's not much Jaskier can do about that with the way he apparently pumps out pheromones in bucketfuls when he sweats. 

Geralt says he smells of lavender and chamomile, with a hint of sweet honey wine. Soft and comforting, but with a bit of a bite at the end that makes you crave another sip. 

Terribly poetic, his witcher. Truly, his potential is wasted as a monster hunter. 

Jaskier ducks under a low-hanging branch, and feels his heart jump behind his ribs—white hair shines in the dark shadows, a single moonbeam cutting through the canopy of the woods to ignite it in a bright flash of light before he's moving back into the shadows. 

He's  _ playing  _ with Jaskier. Letting him go, letting him feel as if he's got a chance of escape. Giving him  _ hope.  _

And fuck it all, it works. Jaskier's heart jumps again and he takes off in the opposite direction, feeling those eyes, dark as pitch with his potions, on his back. He's being watched, being  _ teased _ and it makes his blood pound in his ears as he jumps over a fallen log and beats a path through the dirt. 

To his right, a howl erupts from the trees, and Jaskier nearly stumbles.  _ Fuck.  _ But of course there are other predators in the woods than just his witcher! His heart pounds for another reason entirely now, fear curling in his gut, and Jaskier prays to whatever gods are listening that the wolf knows not to pursue him. 

The one on his trail is enough as it is. 

He needn't have worried, though—another growl rips through the air, challenging the other beast, and Jaskier hears a soft whimper before something slinks away in the dark. His own wolf protects him, always. 

Jaskier is flagging now. His legs ache and it's getting harder to pull in enough breath to keep upright. He nearly stumbles over a patch of something that catches on his boot, catching himself on a felled tree and gasping heavily. Geralt will be able to smell his exhaustion, will—hopefully—take pity on him and show a bit of mercy. 

There's a clearing up ahead; Jaskier can see where the moonlight spills into it like a pool, the grass bleached silver in its soft beams. The gentle, warm night breeze caresses against his skin as he breaks out of the trees, cooling the sweat at his temples. Jaskier comes to a stop, sucking in large breaths, listening to the soft noises of the night. He strains his hearing, trying to pick out heavy footsteps or sticks broken underfoot, anything that would tell him where his pursuer is. 

Something rustles to his left. He whips his head around towards it, eyes wide, panting. From the shadowed line of the trees a form emerges, and Jaskier watches as the moonlight falls over Geralt, illuminating his milk white skin and turning his hair quicksilver. 

He takes a step back and then another as Geralt stalks toward him. His swords are gone, along with his armor—he must have left them at their campsite before pursuing Jaskier. There's a satisfied curl to the corner of his mouth, the sharp point of his teeth peeking out between his lips. 

His eyes are black pits, empty and void, but Jaskier feels that gaze boring into him, getting under his skin, making him buzz with anticipation and just a little bit of excitement. 

_ Here we go.  _ Jaskier takes another step back and then turns and bolts, heading for the other end of the clearing. He knows he won't make it, but that's not the point. 

A gasp is pushed out of him as Geralt's weight slams into him from behind and their momentum brings them to the ground. He's  _ heavy,  _ and Jaskier can't get his arms under him quick enough to prevent his face from being pushed into the dirt by one of Geralt's hands as he bears down with the rest of his body. 

Warm breath tickles his neck as Geralt leans over him, and Jaskier shivers with slow-building heat when his lips brush over his skin, teasing and sending sparks through his blood. He can feel Geralt's cock, hard in his trousers, as he ruts against his ass, and he bites his lip on a needy whimper. 

"Got you, little fox," Geralt murmurs in his ear, rolling his hips, and Jaskier whines and struggles—to get away, to get closer, he isn't sure.  __

He chokes out a breathless  _ Geralt!  _ as big, hot hands push him into the ground, pinning him in place. He can't get any leverage to push himself up, and Geralt's weight on his legs means he can't pull them under himself to kneel. He's pinned flat, held in place right where his witcher wants him, and the thought of being held down and  _ used  _ sends blood to his own cock and heat through his veins. 

Geralt buries his face into his neck, and Jaskier cries out when sharp teeth nip him and worry the skin beneath his jaw: marking him,  _ claiming  _ him. 

The fight leaves him then—his body relaxes, and Jaskier submits to the predator above him, letting himself be used. 

"Gods, Jas," Geralt groans, nosing at the bruise he'd just left on his neck, "you always smell so fucking  _ good.  _ Wanna just eat you up." 

Jaskier whines again, trying to press back into Geralt. His own cock is hard now, and he feels himself leaking into his smallclothes, getting wetter with every thrust and roll of Geralt's hips against him. Heat burns beneath his skin, and he feels flushed, pleasure pooling in his gut and desperate for relief. 

"Geralt, please," he begs, gasping for breath. He jerks beneath Geralt's weight, wriggling, trying to free an arm to get beneath him, but it's all in vain. Geralt presses against him harder, heavier, and Jaskier mewls when fingers thread through his hair and pull, turning into a moan. 

Geralt pulls his hair again, then shifts until he can get a hand beneath Jaskier, pulling him up to his knees. Deft fingers undo the laces of his trousers, and Jaskier chants a breathless chorus of  _ Yes, yes, yes!  _ as Geralt shoves them and his smallclothes down together, freeing his cock to the warm night air. He gasps and thrusts on instinct, searching for friction, for relief from the building tension inside him, and is met with Geralt's fist encircling him and giving him a few brief tugs, smearing precome over his fingers and along Jaskier's cock. 

He lets go too soon— _ not enough, more please more— _ and Jaskier whimpers. Geralt only buries his nose in his neck again, inhaling deeply, and brings his hand around to push two of those barely-slicked fingers into Jaskier's ass without warning. 

"Ah!" 

Jaskier, a hand free now, reaches up to tangle his fingers in Geralt's hair, pulling at it as Geralt opens him up. He's rough with it, pushing his fingers in and out in harsh thrusts that hurt more than feel good. He manages to brush up against Jaskier's prostate a few times, sending sparks of fire up his spine, and Jaskier breathes through his nose and tries to relax his muscles as best he can. 

Geralt pulls his hand away after not even a minute, and Jaskier feels him reach between them to undo the laces of his own trousers, pushing them down just far enough to pull his own hard cock out. It slips between Jaskier's cheeks, thick and hot, wet with his own precome that Jaskier imagines is steadily leaking from the tip. 

His mouth waters at the thought and vaguely he wishes this was one of the nights Geralt would fuck his face with it, stuff it between his lips and make him choke on the girth of it until his throat is raw and he can't sing properly for  _ days  _ because his voice is so rough and fucked out. 

Maybe another night. Tonight, Geralt is feral above him, body hot as it works to get the potions out, growling low in his throat as he takes Jaskier's ass in his hands, spreading him open, and Jaskier's gasp turn into a drawn out mewl as that thick cock is pressed to his hole and then  _ inside,  _ filling him as his body struggles to accommodate it. 

He's not prepped enough by half, his rim burning at the stretch of it, and Jaskier realizes tears have begun to streak his cheeks, his cock flagging at the pain. He grits his teeth, pressing his face into the soft grass beneath him, and tries to breathe through the sting and the ache. Geralt is seated against him in another heartbeat, pushing in with little regard to the resistance Jaskier's body is giving him. He groans, low and pleased in his chest, almost purring, hips rutting forward in little aborted movements that pull and tug at Jaskier's rim and make him cry out. 

"You feel so good, Jas," Geralt rumbles, pulling his cock back out and thrusting back in. It  _ hurts,  _ gods does it hurt, but it's  _ good,  _ and Jaskier whimpers, eyes stinging and hands clenching in the grass. 

He tries to angle his hips, to get Geralt to hit that spot in him that makes him see stars and will help him relax, but Geralt shifts until he's pinned in place again, growling in his ear and increasing his pace, and Jaskier just has to  _ take  _ it. 

"So good, Jas," he's saying, and Jaskier bites his lip on a sob, another hard thrust bringing more tears to his eyes, "so good for me, little fox.  _ Fuck,  _ you're so tight, taking my cock so good. Like you were made for it, Jas. My little cockslut." 

The words burn through him, turning him on and sending pleasure tingling through his veins. Jaskier keens and pushes back against Geralt's thrusts, ignoring the pain, feeling full and stuffed. He chants Geralt's name, soft puffs of  _ Geralt Geralt Geralt  _ falling from his lips, and he cries out in pleasure this time when Geralt's hand snakes under him to grab at his neglected cock, circling it and stroking him as he fucks into Jaskier. 

Finally,  _ finally  _ though, Geralt's cock brushes up against his prostate, and he jerks as more pleasure shoots up his spine. Geralt must sense he's hit it right, because he increases the force of his thrusts and aims for that spot over and over and  _ over  _ again, and whatever pain Jaskier had been in dissolves into heat pooling in his gut. 

Jaskier feels Geralt nose at his neck, tilts his head as much as possible to let him trail soft lips over his skin, mouthing bruises into him as he ruts with uncoordinated franticness. He's lost to the sensation of the thick cock splitting him apart; of a hot, rough hand around his own cock, stripping it and smearing the precome leaking from the tip along it; the heavy weight of his witcher on his back, bearing him down more and more as he chases relief. 

"So good for me," Geralt breathes into his ear, nuzzling behind it, warm lips soft on his sweaty skin, and Jaskier whines. "So good, Jas.  _ Fuck."  _

"Just for you," Jaskier manages, breathless, panting around the words. His fingers dig into the ground, searching for something, anything to anchor himself to as heat builds in him, his release close. His knees ache and his thighs tremble, but he takes it all anyway, whatever Geralt will give him. "Always for you, Geralt, please— _ fuck,  _ right there!" 

He's drooling now, eyes rolling back in his head as Geralt works his cock and thrusts into him with so much force he knows his ass will be bruised tender in the morning. That thick cock is hitting his prostate with every other thrust, sending pleasure through his limbs, and those calloused fingers tease even more precome from his cock, twisting on the upstroke and pulling the foreskin back on the downstroke, the thumb dipping into the head and Jaskier  _ sobs.  _

He trembles as his orgasm washes through him, spurting come over Geralt's fingers, gasping for breath. Geralt works him through it, thrusts not slowing a bit, continuing to abuse his cock and his prostate until Jaskier is a keening, whining, oversensitive mess struggling to get away from the stimulation to no avail. 

His arm flails until his hand lands on Geralt's thigh, and he's not sure whether he's trying to push Geralt away or pull him in closer. "Geralt, Geralt,  _ Geralt."  _

A growl rips from Geralt's chest, his hips slapping against Jaskier until suddenly he stills, and Jaskier feels as hot come fills him, that thick cock pulsing inside him, and it's so good he feels his own cock give a feeble twitch in response, his body shivering and aching. 

Geralt remains above him, breathing heavily, for an endless moment before finally he shifts, and Jaskier finds himself eased to the ground as his witcher pulls out, biting his lip when that thick cock slips out and he feels the full brunt of his stretched, stinging rim, come leaking from his hole. 

His entire being  _ aches.  _ Jaskier takes deep, even breaths, eyes closed, and lets the warm feeling of his orgasm linger as long as it can. Warm hands move over his torso, and Jaskier lets himself be turned over and cradled up against Geralt's chest. 

When he opens his eyes, Jaskier sees gold blinking back at him, and he smiles, small and lazy and fucked out. "Hey." 

Geralt's mouth twitches, like he wants to smile back, and it makes him smile wider. "Hey, yourself. Are you alright?" 

"Never better," Jaskier says, and he truly means it. He shifts, wanting to press closer to his witcher, and sucks in a sharp breath. He amends, "I might not be able to walk back to camp, though. We really need to work on your prep skills mid-potion, I think. I'm getting too old to be taking it raw in the middle of the forest." 

He feels more than sees Geralt wince. "Sorry." 

"It's fine," he says, because it is. He tucks his face into Geralt's chest, breathing in the smell of his sweat and dirt and sex. "I've told you: whatever you need, you can take." 

"Jas—" 

"Make it up to me, then," Jaskier interrupts him. He wraps his arms around Geralt's shoulders, pulling himself as close as possible, ignoring the ache in his bottom half. He presses a gentle kiss to the bolt of Geralt's jaw, then his cheek, then, when Geralt turns his head, his mouth. "Back at camp, preferably. We need to check on Roach, make sure she's not got into any trouble while we've been gone." 

Geralt shakes his head, fondness in his eyes and in the curl of his mouth. "I'm sure she's fine." 

With some difficulty, Geralt helps him pull his trousers back up, making sure they're both decent once again. Then he puts one arm around Jaskier's back and the other under his knees, and Jaskier quite enjoys being cradled in his witcher's arms, held close and tenderly like he's something special, something precious. 

The way Geralt lays Jaskier on top of his chest and holds onto him back at camp, nose in his hair, lips leaving soft kisses wherever he can reach, mouthing  _ I love you  _ into Jaskier's skin—Jaskier thinks he might be. 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) !


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